


happiness has a name (it's yours)

by solyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Second Person, Voltron Secret Santa 2017, i'm sorry momther forgive me for reverting to my dark hs days, klance, lots of fluff (specifically cuddling), rated t for some swearsies, shayllura is relatively minor sorry, the broganes and holts might as well be one family yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13117785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solyn/pseuds/solyn
Summary: [ VLD Secret Santa 2017 gift for inferiorskirt.tumblr.com ]"Your driver’s license reads Keith Kogane and the front of his books read Lance McClain and when you look at him every inch of your physique reads ‘in way too deep’"Keith's crush, Lance, becomes a little less unobtainable and a little more his best friend when Keith gifts him his leather jacket.





	happiness has a name (it's yours)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inferiorskirt](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=inferiorskirt).



> hoo boy! sorry if this is a little janky, i did my best to edit it properly but brain machine too fast sometimes! it was an absolute joy to work on this for you (if not a lot disconcerting as i spent the last half writing about the cold while sitting at the beach in the dead of summer) & i really hope you enjoy it!

You need to get away.

 

It’s been six months since Shiro came home, but things aren’t like they were before, like you thought they would be. Matt’s smiles are always taught, a weariness settled behind his eyes as he tells you, again and again ‘give it time’. You  _ are _ giving it time, but time isn’t helping, isn’t fixing, isn’t healing like it’s supposed to. It doesn’t seem too much to ask for your brother back (you know he needs time, time, always time, time you don’t see an end to) but it’s hard. Hard to see him like that. Hard to see them all like that.

 

_ The wonders of the modern world _ , you think to yourself bitterly as you settle your helmet onto your head. You think about your AP history class from high school. Your teacher asked if history was progress. You’re not sure how it can be when your period of history chews your brother up and spits out a hollowed out husk of a human being. You rev the engine of your bike and peel away from the curb. The further away your brick apartment block gets, the more your worries get left behind.

 

You could imagine what your mother would say about you driving your bike around at 2am on a Thursday night. Or, technically, a Friday morning. You can hear the incredulous way her voice lilts when she says your name like a thunderstorm. “ _ Keith _ ,” she says, like the boom of thunder and crack of lightning at the exact same time and you’ve never heard a word more formidable than your name when she says it. A teacher once commented your father must not have taught you any manners, and you thought then as you think now that Shiro is his father’s son and you’re the immovable object to counteract your mother’s unstoppable force.

 

But that’s not important. Your mother might not approve (you think that Madame Shirogane might, in fact, kick your ass) but you’re a grown ass adult. You’re nineteen. You have a job. You go to college. You have a tattoo. Granted, she doesn’t know about the tattoo, but the rest of it? You’re an adult, and you don’t have to be thinking about what your mother would think if she knew you were night-riding.

 

You remind yourself to beg Shiro not to tell her, anyway.

 

You cruise through streets of brimstone coloured bricks, dully illuminated by street lamps. The city never sleeps, and people hustle in and out of shops. The drone of your engine blocks out their sounds. You focus on nothing more but the stripes lining the road, taking solace in the predictable twists and turns of the city you call home. You don’t know where you’re going; you never do, on rides like this, but your body inevitably draws you to the ocean. You can’t explain why, but every time without fail, you swing into the abandoned beach parking lot, soda cans and McDonald’s wrappers clattering about in the wind.

 

You shut off the engine and kick down the stand, letting the bike lean to the side as you pull your helmet off. You turn your hands over to check the tips of your fingers peeking out from under your fingerless gloves. Your hands have gotten better since you bought gloves to ride with. You use them to push back your hair, separating thick strands from your forehead where they had previously been pasted by sweat. You slump back into the seat, helmet placed between your thighs, as you look out over the ocean.

 

There’s something implicitly calming about being here. A place so crowded in the daytime now so empty. There are no beach chairs or umbrellas or squealing children. Even the seagulls that squawk and wheel overhead during the day have gone to sleep. The waves rise and smash against the beach with thunderous claps, and the wild wind blows in from over the ocean, whipping your hair about your face and pressing the smell of salt into your skin. It’s nature’s forceful kiss, and you are not in a position to deny.

 

You close your eyes, breathe in the air, and let the silence wash over you. Perhaps time does not help, fix, or heal, but this place? This place soothes the pain, if only for a moment. It’s a place for introspection, for creativity, for ‘being a trademark emo kid since 2005’ as Pidge once said. It’s peaceful. You like it here. You have an endless room to think, to feel, and to grow. Just you, and the ocean. A smile crosses your face, curls the corners of them up and relaxes the rest of your muscles. The tension seeps out of your shoulders and vanishes from the crease between your eyes. You’re not even twenty yet and you’ve got frown lines, as Shiro likes to point out on his better days. The thought just makes the smile broader.

 

Then, a laugh cuts into your thoughts.

 

Your eyes snap open immediately. The tension returns. This is your place. No one is supposed to be here. No matter that the laugh is the happiest sound you have ever heard, free and wild and lacking with care. It reminds you of the cawing of seagulls, challenging the waves with it’s volume. The voice laughs again in time with the crash of the breakers, and your eyes seek out the offender responsible. You squint into the darkness, eyes roaming the length of the beach. You don’t see  _ anyone _ , and you wonder if all the late nights and the Monster energy drinks you swipe from Pidge are finally starting to get to you.

 

The voice laughs again, whooping and hollering with glee, and you spot them when they move. They’re not on the beach as you anticipated, but instead waist deep in the water, running to meet the waves like lovers reunited after a decade apart. The figure is tall- taller than you- with broad shoulders and a narrow waist and long, lithe limbs that he stretches out to greet the ocean, head tipping back and a gleeful laugh escaping their lips as the wave crashes onto their chest. The force should knock them over, but it doesn’t. They stand, arms spread, face turned to the stars twinkling in the night sky as if they’re awaiting the ocean to pull them under and take them home.

 

You didn’t realize someone could be so  _ happy  _ like that, and you think they’re a bit crazy for going swimming alone at two in the morning, but you can’t tear your eyes away. Not even when the figure turns their face and meets your eyes from all the way across the beach. You can see the smile from your bike, and your face turns red when they lift an arm and wave at you enthusiastically. You don’t know what else to do but shyly wave back, just a little twitch of your hand where it’s curled almost protectively to your chest.

 

A wave smashes into the figure from behind, and they laugh again, as if an old friend has just nailed them in the back of the head with a snowball. You can’t help but smile; the laugh is infectious, and you close your eyes, shake your head. When your eyes open, they’re gone, and it takes you a good thirty seconds to realize that it’s because the shape is picking up what you  _ thought  _ was beach debris, and moving toward you. You could easily start your bike up and run away, avoid contact with this person altogether, but you don’t. Something in you says ‘stay, you could learn a thing or two’, but as they get closer, you realize what a horrible, horrible mistake you’ve made.

 

Your driver’s license reads Keith Kogane and the front of his books read Lance McClain and when you look at him every inch of your physique reads ‘in way too deep’. Usually, you see him with a shirt on, and as he meanders toward you, dripping wet and illuminated by the moonlight you think it comes directly from one of the fantasies that you shove deep, deep down into the Pandora’s box of your heart, never to be recovered. He’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever met and seeing him like that with the ocean, you think he was definitely crafted by Poseidon because no man is that perfect and he  _ has  _ to be the work of some God.

 

“Keith, hey!” he says when he gets close enough, shirt draped across his shoulders, obscuring the strap of his side bag, flip-flops in one hand and water bottle in the other. When you don’t reply, looking- as you  _ know  _ you must- utterly fucking gobsmacked, he points at himself and hits you with that brilliant grin that outshines every star in the sky and says, “it’s me, Lance.”

 

You want to say ‘I know’. You want to tell him you’ve known since the first day he sat beside you in your history elective and sank into his seat like he’d been there all his life. You want to say the only thing that makes those lectures bearable is the way the afternoon light kisses his brown skin and illuminates his freckles. You want to say you think the way he chews on his pencil is the cutest damn thing you’ve ever seen in your life and the best day of your life was the time he turned to you and asked to borrow one of yours and made a conscious effort not to gnaw on it.

 

Your brain struggles, dies, restarts, and your mouth moves and before you know it, you’ve said; “Uh… who?”

 

You hope the Earth collides with the sun in that instant, as Lance’s face takes on a confused expression. You have never wanted to cease existing more than you do right now, as he lets out an awkward laugh, shifting his water bottle to the other hand so that he can rub the back of his neck, head tilted to the side. You wait for him to say something. He waits for you to remember. You think you should just drive off now and be done with it but the way his fringe is plastered to his forehead and the way his dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight is intoxicating and paralyzing and you’re stuck to the spot.

 

“Lance McClain,” he says finally, “we have a history elective together? I sit next to you? I borrowed your pencil once?” He’s doing his best to explain and it’s too late for you to say you know who he is and you might be just a little bit in love with him and you’re not sure why you said that… so you just nod, a sharp, jerky movement that’s more a slight lift of your chin and you clear your throat, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear that immediately falls back out of place.

 

“Right,” you say, “of course. Lance. Hi.” The little you that lives in your brain has grabbed the one manning the speaker that translates to what you say, and is giving him a good shaking, rattling him about and shrieking. You’ve been crushing on Lance for an unreasonable amount of time. You remember holding your head in your hands and wailing about it to Shiro when he was away overseas, before he disappeared. You wanted him to notice you, no matter how futile the dream was, because boys like Lance don’t like boys like you, and that’s just a fact. Now, the dream has come true, and the best you can do is to pretend you don’t know him.

 

Your mother destroying you is starting not to sound so bad.

 

“What are you doing out here,” you manage, in the awkward silence that follows, “it’s uh, kind of late to be… swimming.” You glance pointedly at his hands, noting that he doesn’t have a towel. You don’t spend a lot of time at the beach, but you’re pretty sure it’s odd to go without a towel. Lance glances at his own hands and then laughs, pulling his shirt from his shoulders and using it to dry his face, blinking away what must be salt water having trickled into his eyes. He looks a little embarrassed, slinging the now dampened shirt back across his shoulder.

 

“I worked a late shift and my friend was supposed to come get me, but I think he may have fallen asleep,” you must look a little irritated because he laughs, that carefree little cackle he has that makes your heart do fond flips in your chest, “don’t knock him, he’s working a… uh… internship I guess at a pretty fancy restaurant, sometimes he’s tired. It’s not too big of a deal, I can always catch a taxi from the waterfront and use it as leverage for some of his home baking which is, frankly, to die for.” You notice he talks a lot with his hands, and they stop abruptly when he notices you staring. You blink up at his face. He looks sheepish, but he’s grinning anyway, which doesn’t surprise you because you’re not sure anything in the world could knock his confidence.

 

He doesn’t apologize for rambling, even though he seems like he wants to. It’s one of the things you like about him. He’s more himself than any of the other people you know. He shows up to your classes in hideously coloured board shorts that he somehow manages to make look  _ good _ , and he always answers questions as if he couldn’t be wrong, and laughs about it when he is. He’s goofy, but you  _ know  _ he’s smart, because you’ve seen some of his test scores when they’re handed back out throughout the lecture hall, and you know for a fact you’re on even ground in terms of being the best students in the class.

 

“I could give you a lift,” you say before you even register what your mouth is doing, and then it’s too late to take it back so you just roll with it. “I’ve only got one helmet, but you can have it. I don’t need it.” Your mother’s voice in the back of your head hisses ‘you don’t need  _ what now, _ Keith Kogane?’ but you push it to the side and lift your helmet from your lap to extend it to Lance with a small half-smile. He looks shocked, and you think it’s probably because he doesn’t see you smile all that much. He takes the helmet in his free hand, looking it over with a bewildered expression, before glancing at you.

 

“Are you… sure? I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” You wave your hand dismissively, because you’re afraid if you open your mouth you’ll tell him you’d probably kill a man to have his arms wrapped around you in any context. A grin splits his face and he drops his flip flops onto the ground, wiggling his feet into them. “Well then, cool! I’ve always wanted to ride a bike but my  _ Mamá _ wouldn’t let me. She said it was a one way ticket to death.” That makes you laugh, as he works on shoving his drink bottle and shirt into his bag. You’re not sure how he’s going to secure that.

 

“You have no idea how much I had to beg  _ my  _ Mom to agree to getting me a bike,” you say, and Lance laughs, as if he empathises with having a strong-willed mother. You’re willing to bet your whole left arm that Lance’s mother is incredible. Like mother, like son, you think. You pause, and then swing your leg up and over the other side of your bike so you can stand. Lance looks up in surprise, blinking as you begin to shrug out of your jacket. The chill of the wind bites into the skin of your bare arms, and you wonder how Lance isn’t cold considering he’s also soaked to the bone. You hold the jacket out to Lance.

 

“Here,” you say, “you’ll get cold otherwise. Plus, if you zip it up you should be able to secure your bag inside of it.” He pauses, as if reluctant to take it. You wonder what the issue is, until he points at it, still looking tentative, eyes meeting yours.

 

“Is that… real?”

 

“Oh, no,” you let out an abrupt laugh, “it’s faux. But it does the trick.” He lets out a little breath of relief, and you realize he was worried about getting it wet. It surprises you that he knows that about fabrics, but that thought is pushed away by the sight of him shrugging it onto his shoulders. He slips both his arms in, and then shucks the lapels like you’ve only seen in music videos and you almost choke on air because not only does Lance look fantastic in a leather jacket, he looks fantastic in  _ your  _ leather jacket. You think you might faint. You turn away quickly, and swing back onto the bike.

 

He pulls the bag around to his front, trapping it with his arm as he pulls the hem of the jacket together and zips it all the way up. It’s a little short on him, but he’s more slender than you are and the looseness makes up for it. He settles the helmet over his head, and climbs onto the bike behind you. You’re painfully aware of his proximity, especially when he scoots closer to get his feet comfortably on the passenger footpegs. His arms wrap around your middle and hold tight, and his knees are touching the outside of your thighs. You can feel the presence of his head next to yours.

 

“Where do you live?” You ask, to force your heart to slow down. He gives you an address, and you turn the bike’s engine over, kick the stand up and pull around in a wide circle to exit the parking lot. It’s been a while since you last rode without gear, so you go slower than you normally would. It minimizes the windchill and, thankfully, it’s not the season for bugs, so you make it to Lance’s apartment block without any major drama. You idle at the curb, kicking your stand down again to make it easier for him to get off.

 

You mourn the loss of his arms around your waist as he gracefully gets back to his feet, and pulls the helmet off his head. His hair is still too wet for him to have helmet hair, and he’s smiling broadly at you as he holds your helmet out. You take it from him, returning his grin with a shy smile of your own. In the light of the streetlamp, he looks like an angel, and it’s hard to believe he just spent the last twenty or so minutes semi-cuddling you on the back of your bike.

 

“Thanks for the ride,” he says, and it’s sincere. He nods at your bike. “I can see why you like it. It feels…”

 

“Free,” you finish for him. You share a smile, and he nods his agreement. You stay there in silence for a minute or so, but it doesn’t feel like before. That was awkward, this is comfortable. Like you’re thinking the same things and nothing needs to be said to convey the thoughts. Finally, Lance takes a deep breath and takes a step back onto the sidewalk, lifting a hand to wave at you.

 

“See you in class,” he sounds… hopeful. You smile wider, and nod at him, before settling your helmet back on your head. You wave at him as you rev your engine again and careen away into the night. It’s not until you’re home, bike parked and locked in the complex lot, boots shucked and gloves discarded, stripped down to nothing but your Star Wars boxers and well-loved MCR shirt, tucked into bed with your face turned into your bicep as you sprawl across the mattress, that you realize Lance still has your jacket.

 

***

 

Shiro doesn’t leave his room often anymore, so you forgo trying to tell him about your encounter and head straight to Pidge. You never thought you would sincerely say that a 16 year old would be one of your best friends, but Pidge is a lesbian and you’re gay and there’s a certain solidarity involved that makes you two almost inseparable. That, and your mutual love of aliens and government conspiracy theories. In all honesty, she’s like the little sister you never had and never knew you wanted.

 

“I didn’t realize you were so hung up on this guy,” Pidge says, eyebrow quirked at you over a ridiculously large cup of coffee from the place down the road and around the corner from the apartment you share with Shiro and Matt. You’re skeptical as to whether her parents allow her to funnel that much caffeine into her system, but then you remember your emo phase and how many energy drinks you downed against your mother’s wishes, and you decide to keep quiet. Instead, you groan and put your face on your hand.

 

“It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?” You ask, and Pidge hums noncommittally. “You’re not supposed to agree with me,” you say, offended, shaking your head at the amused twinkle in her eyes. At this point, you’re sure Pidge just does these things for the express purpose of winding you up, which is fitting, you think, because as a younger sibling you’re well aware that’s just how the job goes. You step on her toes under the table with your big boots and she gasps, before sticking her tongue out at you. You stick your tongue out back until she laughs.

 

“If I can offer my sage wisdom,” she teases, “learned from many years of dating experience, that I obviously have, me, the heartbreaker, with my eighteen ex girlfriends and string of one night stands…” you’re laughing to hard by this point. She’s always had a knack for delivery, the sarcastic lilt to her voice, the way she says the words from almost the corner of her mouth, the deadpan expression and serious tone. You’re not sure how she doesn’t lose her shit when she’s saying things like this, considering you know for a fact that Pidge’s only experience with romance was a ‘boyfriend’ in middle school that she ‘dated’ for three days before breaking up with him because he held hands with another girl on the playground.

 

“Of course, oh wise Romance Guru,” you say mockingly, clasping your hands together in front of you in a faux-desperate plea. Pidge puts one hand over her heart and fixes you with an offended stare, as if she cannot simply believe the absolute AUDACITY you’d have to have to say something like that.

 

“You know Sims references make me weak,” she says, huffily, and you promptly burst into laughter again, even as her little feet are stomping on the toes of your boots to make you stop. “Listen,” she says, and then again in quick succession until she has your attention, “I’ve known you for a long, long time, and I’ve never seen you as excited over a guy as you are over this ‘Lance’. I think it’d be good for you to have someone to at  _ least _ hang out with that’s not me or Shiro.”

 

You think about this. Shiro and Pidge are good friends- and Shiro is your  _ brother _ \- but you know for a fact you, a college-aged student, should have college-aged friends who will do college things with you. You can’t think of a better college friend than Lance, with his loud and bubbly persona, that confident laugh and the way he seems to know  _ everyone. _ Lance is someone who could change your life, and you know it. The thought makes you smile. Pidge puts her hand on yours, across the table. You smile at her, the kind you know she recognizes as sincere.

 

“Thanks,” you say, and you leave it at that.

 

***

 

You walk into your history class with high spirits after your talk with Pidge. You’re determined. You and Lance will be friends, and there’s absolutely nothing that can stop you from being just as charming as he is. Except that the exact second you spot Lance, you feel like he just punched you directly in the stomach and now you can’t breathe. And  _ God  _ would you give anything to live in that sensation of breathlessness forever. You want to commit this exact moment to your memory, want every single sensation etched into your very being. Lance is wearing a jacket. It’s the first thought that registers. But it’s not just any jacket. You’ve seen him wear jackets before; they make his shoulders look broader and stronger and accentuate the narrowness of his waist. This jacket is special.

 

It’s  _ your  _ jacket.

 

He spots you, where you’ve stopped directly in the doorway, and waves enthusiastically. You forget how to function for a few seconds, and you think you might have to kill him. You don’t know how to flirt with him and every little thing he does gives you heart palpitations. It’s  _ so  _ unfair and you know your face is redder than the chrome plating on your bike but that doesn’t stop your autopilot from kicking in and dragging you toward Lance. He pulls his spindly legs into the seat so that you can squeeze past and flop down next to him. He swivels in his seat to face you, draping his arm across the back of the row, and bouncing his eyebrows with an impish grin.

 

“Well _hello,_ dollface,” he says with his best Brooklyn accent (it’s the worst one you’ve ever heard, but he’s saying it, so you think it’s cute, “come around here often?” You know he’s teasing. You _know_ he is and the rational you inside your brain is shaking the lovestruck you and screaming because you are way reading into this, but you desperately want it to be true. You giggle nervously, and Lance bursts into laughter, beginning to shrug out of your jacket.

 

“I brought your jacket back,” he says, even though it’s clearly obvious, “Mama didn’t raise no thief.” You watch the way his shoulder muscles ripple under his shirt as he rolls them back, slowly slipping the jacket further down his arms. Your pulse quickens. Your mouth moves. Lance stops dead, lifts his eyes from his lap to glance at you from under long lashes, mouth open in a soft ‘o’. You hate him. You  _ hate  _ him. How can one man be so perfect? So beautiful?

 

“For real?”

 

“Yeah,” you manage, aware of how strangled your voice sounds, “keep it. It looks good on you.”

 

You  _ know  _ you’re not imagining what happens next. A grin more radiant than a million suns splits Lance’s face, accentuated by a deep red blush, crawling across his cheeks rapidly and searing itself into his skin. You notice suddenly that he’s more intensely freckled than you first realized. They stand out, little dark dots against a sea of red. Lance ducks his head, pulls the jacket back up around his shoulders and tugs the lapels closed around his torso, as if engulfing himself in a hug. His eyes meet yours again. You both stare for just a little bit too long, before Lance huffs out a little breath of laughter, and you give each other replica smiles; soft turns in the corners of your lips.

 

“Thanks, Keith,” he says, and it’s the simplest phrase in the world, but the delivery makes all the difference. The shy sincerity in the thanks, the delicate way he forms his lips around your name, as if anything but the gentlest of treatment would shatter it. You burn it into your memory, and all through the class, all through the way home and all through the night you play the way he says your name on repeat, because it’s the best song to  _ ever  _ be stuck in your head.

  
  


***

 

You know Lance likes boys. You see it in the way his eyes dart, distracted from conversations, to trace the sloping shoulders of a passing frat boy. You see it in the way he stares too long at men in nicely tailored suits, only to duck his head away and laugh too loud at whatever joke his friend, Hunk, told. You see it when he shoulders his brown backpack, and the glint of a bi pride pin catches your eye. You  _ know  _ he likes boys.

 

You also know he doesn’t like  _ your  _ kind of boy.

 

You’re friends now, you would say. You hang out together all the time. It was a rapid change; one minute, you were ‘Keith, from history’, the next minute you were ‘gerard way’s number one fan’ in the group chat, as much a steady presence as those who had known Lance for years, like Hunk and Allura. You invited Pidge to hang out with you once, and after five minutes of speaking to Lance, she shot you a knowing little smile that said ‘I see why you like him’.

 

But Lance doesn’t like you. That’s the sad reality of it. You witness him flirting with Allura, leaning dramatically on walls and spitting out overused pick-up lines like the one he teased you with in class that day. Allura rolls her eyes, pushes his shoulders, gives long-suffering sighs, and for  _ particularly  _ bad ones, Hunk threatens to call Lance’s mother (“Hunk, this is number one on WatchMojo dot com’s Top Ten Anime Betrayals”) which stops him pretty fast. You would give  _ anything  _ for Lance to flirt with you like that, and it angers you that Allura doesn’t seem to know how lucky she is.

 

“Hey  _ Allura, _ ” Lance says, with the sing-songy lilt to his voice that says, blatantly ‘I’m up to something’. Allura turns to squint at him, trying to judge the magnitude of this next line, based on factors she once described to you as ‘the angle of the chest puff, the degree to which the eyebrow is raised, and how shiteating the grin is’. “Are those space pants?” He points to Allura’s harem-style pants, black with white stars. Everyone knows what comes next. No one is fast enough to stop his mouth. “Because your ass is  _ out of this world _ .”

 

“Lance, Allura is going to kill you,” Hunk says in a flat, unimpressed deadpan. Allura gives another of her patented maternal sighs and you do nothing but shake your head at him. You feel fake. You’d give your entire left leg for Lance to say your ass was out of this world. But he doesn’t. Instead, he throws his arms out wide, basking in the aura of disappointment.

 

“That was the worst one yet,” Allura says, and your senses snap into overdrive when you realize she sounds amused, “I might have to uninvite you from my Christmas get-together.” That shuts Lance up. His arms come down hard and he steps forward to throw his arms around her, wrapping her into a big cuddle that makes her giggle-snort, lightly jabbing at his sides with her prim fingers, trying to tickle him into letting her go as Lance makes a dramatic apology.

 

“ _ Alluuuuuuuuuuuuuuura, _ ” he whines, “ _ lo siento, florecita.  _ I’m so soww--- hrk!” Allura lightly pinches his back and he wiggles away from her, making pleading prayer hands even as he reroutes to safety behind Hunk. You do your best to stifle a giggle. “You can’t uninvite me, Allura, I’ll  _ die  _ without you guys if I have to go the whole Christmas break without seeing you.”

 

“You live with Hunk,” you point out, and Lance pouts at you accusingly. You smile at him sweetly and, before your brain registers what you’re doing, you blow him a kiss. He goes red, and ducks his face against Hunk’s thick bicep, clutching his arm like a lifeline. Hunk reaches a baseball-mitt hand around to ruffle Lance’s hair.

 

“You’re the only bitch out here who supports me,” Lance grumbles, which makes you and Allura laugh, while Hunk simply nods sagely and claps him on the back heartily. You’ve only caught snippets of their history, but you know for a fact Hunk has known Lance for a long, long time. Your brain finally catches up to this fact, and your eyes fix on Hunk’s hand, settled comfortingly between Lance’s shoulder blades. If anyone knows anything about Lance’s crushes, it’s Hunk. Even if it confirms what you already know, you think it’s worth a shot.

 

“-- My place on the 20th,” Allura is saying, and you realize suddenly that she’s extending a little card to you with her address, phone number, and the date on it. You feel like you just stepped directly into some parody of a highschool drama because you’ve never been given an  _ actual  _ invite to an  _ actual  _ party. You’re surprised to get one to  _ this  _ party in particular, honestly. Not because you think Allura doesn’t like you, but because it still astounds you these are somehow your friends.

 

Allura passes a card to Hunk, probably because she knows Lance will lose it, before checking her watch and declaring that she’s late for her next lecture. She waves bye to all of you, heels clacking against the concrete walkway as she turns the corner and vanishes from your sight. Your distracted eyes stare at the spot she disappeared, before Lance’s voice collides with your ears, and you snap back to reality, turning your head to blink at him almost owlishly.

  
“ _ Keeeeeeeith _ ,” he draws out your name, “Hunk and I are going for ice cream. You want to come?” A smile breaks over your face as you take a step toward them. It’s a question Lance doesn’t even  _ have  _ to ask.

 

***

 

For some reason, you expected Allura’s party to be larger than it is. It’s just you, Hunk, Lance and Allura. And Allura’s girlfriend Shay. She’s tall and broad-shoulders and very sweet, and she sits with her arm so casually around Allura’s shoulder that you think it was made to be there. You make a mental note to introduce Allura to Pidge because you’re sure she could use someone who is not you to talk about the cute girl in her robotics club. You don’t know what liking girls is like, but you do know what liking boys is like.

 

It’s like a fire dancing against a perfectly black night sky. Like gentle waves lapping the shore, tickling toes. Like laughter. Like Lance’s hand on your waist, his shoulder clumsily knocking against yours and the smell of sickly sweet sparkling grape juice on his breath as your foot lands on his again and he laughs, forehead just inches away from your own. You apologize profusely, but he waves you away, leans into you a little more with a long-suffering sigh that you’re almost certain he learnt from Allura. It’s too similar to have come from anywhere else.

 

“We  _ suck  _ at this,” Lance declares, “I guess my dreams of winning  _ So You Think You Can Dance  _ are dead. I’ve peaked at nineteen.” He slumps against you and you snort a little, placing your hand on his back comfortingly. He’s laughing, and you can feel his whole body shaking against you. You want to live in this moment forever, some generic Spotify playlist playing in the background, the soft mumble of conversation behind you, Allura’s Uncle Coran calling out to the gaggle of teenagers in his living room, twangy accent loudly inquiring as to whether or not you want ‘refreshments’.

 

“I think you’re a great dancer,” you say, with not a modicum of insincerity. Even if Lance looks a bit dorky when he’s dancing, he’s free. He swings and spins and shimmies with reckless abandon, unafraid of judgement. You’re not sure how he’s so wildly unbothered by spectators. You think it’s unfairly attractive, but then again, you think that about every aspect of Lance. He touches your shoulder, nodding slowly with wide eyes.

 

“Thank you, Keith,” he says, hand touching your cheek. Your heart stops, and you choke on air. He pats the side of your face in the way you’ve seen too many jocks in stereotypical teen higschool dramas pat their friends. Your heart droops. “You’re a crappy liar,” he declares, and you snort, put a hand on his abdomen and shove him away from you. He stumbles, flails, and then spins upright on his heel, spreading his arms like he’s some great gymnast. You struggle to contain your amusement, raising a brow and golf-clapping for him sarcastically. He takes an exaggerated bow.

 

“Graceful recovery, buddy,” Hunk says, voice barbed with a teasing tone. Lance straightens, fluidly, and gives him the finger.

 

“Bite me.”

 

“Kinky.”

 

“Shut up, there are children present!”

 

“You’re the youngest,” you pipe up, rather unhelpfully. Lance throws his arms in the air, striding back toward the couches and dramatically flopping down the other side of Allura and sprawling across her lap with his arm draped across his eyes. She reaches down to pat his forehead. You and Hunk exchange a look, and promptly burst into laughter. When your chest feels light enough for you to breathe again, you wipe the tears from the corner of your eyes. You didn’t think the happiest you’d felt in years would be a consequence of becoming friends with  _ Lance _ . Shiro always used to say that life was full of pleasant surprises, and this is the first time in your whole life you’ve ever started to see his point.

 

You've never liked parties, but this is one you can stomach. It's small and it's quiet and you laugh so hard both your stomach and jaw aches. It's well into the next day by the time you decide to sleep. The group of you push Allura’s living room setup to the sides of the room and drag mattresses into it, jamming them together and covering them with blankets and pillows to make one extensive bed. You rotate shifts through the bathroom, getting changed, brushing teeth, and in your case, tying up your hair to stop it from getting tangled in the night. You open the door, and almost run smack into Lance’s chest. He straightens upright instantly, stepping back from where he was leaning.

 

“Hey!” He sounds surprised, as if he hadn't known you were in there.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Um,” he clears his throat nervously, “this is kind of a weird question and like, you don't have to and all that and I mean it never hurts to like. Ask or some shit right but I was wondering-” he takes another deep breath “- did you um. Did you want to cuddle? Maybe?”

 

You can't answer because you're fairly sure your whole body has stopped. You can feel the gears grinding in your head, trying to make your brain reboot for long enough to tell him if you passed on the offer you would have to be the biggest fool in the world. You can see Lance getting embarrassed, red tint spreading across his face. You know that expression, he's upset but trying not to show it. He lifts a hand, as if to dismiss it, and without thinking you grab it, grip it tightly. He blinks at you, genuinely surprised now.

 

“Yes,” you manage finally, “yeah. I would love to cuddle with you.” The grin that splits his face could light the entire world you think.

 

“Really? Okay well uh! Great! Awesome! I have to…. bathroom… but I'll see you out there!” He squeezes your hand and brushes past you into the bathroom, door closed solidly behind him. You don't walk away fast enough to miss the almost giddy, high-pitched little “holy shit” he mutters to himself, and it puts a smile on your face and a bounce in your step as you make your way back to the communal sleeping area.

 

Even Allura is staying there with you. She lays on one end, head on Shay’s chest, who in turn is turned toward Hunk, murmuring quietly about one of their biology courses that you don't understand. Lance comes to join you a few minutes later, and wiggles in between you and Hunk, holding out his arms to you. Nothing has ever felt better to you than curling into Lance’s grip, feeling his delicate hands come to rest on your back, slender fingers cradling the back of your head. You drape an arm over his waist and curl the other one against your chest, trying not to grin too giddily as you feel his nose press against the top of your head. You turn your face into his neck and inhale. He smells like sea salt and a sharp, fresh scent you think must be his cologne. It fits him like a glove and you want it burned into your senses forever.

 

You fall asleep like that, Lance cradling you like you're made of glass, fingers absently smoothing across your back. His fingertips brush skin where the back of your shirt has ridden up, and he retracts them quickly. Your fist tightens against the back of his shirt, tugging at it lightly. His breathing gets a little quicker, and you can hear his heart hammering away inside his chest as he reaches out and more boldly presses his fingers to bare skin. His hand is warm, a pleasant break from the chill of the air. When Hunk wakes you in the morning, Lance’s hand is still pressed to your bare skin.

 

He's snoring, lightly, and as you lift your head, you realise Shay and Allura are still asleep. Carefully, you wiggle your way out from under Lance, and pad after Hunk into the kitchen. He's been quietly collecting utensils from various cupboards, and he pauses to look at you as you enter. He puts a finger to his lips and you nod in understanding. You don't want to wake anyone else anyway. Hunk points to some cabinets and mouths the word “waffle maker”, so you move toward them and quietly collect the machine for him. You settle it on the bench next to him, your shoulder touching Hunk’s bicep.

 

“Hey,” you say, voice barely more than a whisper, “do you think Lance likes me?” Hunk looks at you like you've just proclaimed you enjoy casual guillotining as a pastime, and you shrink a little, nervously fiddling with the cord of the waffle maker.

 

“You're kidding, right,” Hunk says, voice low and quiet but not whispered. You look at him helplessly and he bursts into silent chuckles, shaking his head. “ _ Keith _ , Lance talks about you like you single-handedly put the stars in the sky. If he doesn't like you then I obviously don't know him as well as I think, because as far as I can tell, Lance is pretty much enamoured with you.” The response has you all kinds of flustered, and you tug your ponytail loose to card your fingers through it, taking pleasure in the soft strands under your touch.

 

“Really? But he doesn't flirt with me. Like, at all. Not like how he flirts with Allura.” Hunk smiles at you, the kind that makes you feel like a silly child. He reaches out a hand to place it on your shoulder, a comforting gesture.

 

“That's not Lance flirting. That's just him having a bit of fun. When he really likes someone, he doesn't know what to do with himself. And he really likes you. He always wants to be around you, always wants to invite you to stuff. Hell, we went Christmas shopping and I had to strong arm him into only buying you two presents, max, or he would have brought you the entire store.” You smile, a pleasant blush worming its way into your skin as you turn to look at Lance, still peacefully asleep. You turn back to Hunk with a happy little smile, and he claps you on the shoulder before inclining his head toward Lance. You give him a grateful look, before exiting the kitchen and moving back toward the bed as fast as you can.

 

The mattress dips under the weight of your knees, and Lance stirs, rubbing his eyes a little as he blinks up at you. You smile down at him, settling next to him on the mattress. He grins back, as if waking up next to you is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

 

“Hi,” you whisper.

 

“Hey,” he whispers back, holding out an arm for you. You grin back at him, and roll into his embrace, back fitted snugly against his chest. He curls around you, slotting into place like a puzzle piece you didn't know you were missing. His arms curl around your middle, and you place your arms on top of them, taking one of his hands in your own and lacing your fingers together. You can feel his breathing quicken, and he presses his face closer against your neck.

 

“Sorry if I woke you.”

 

“‘S fine. Hunk making breakfast?”

 

“Yeah, waffles I think.”

 

“He's a good bitch,” you can't help but snort at his sleepy declaration, and your heartbeat picks up as Lance nuzzles the side of your neck, the elegant press of his nose just the exact right amount of pressure. You could live like this forever, cocooned in Lance’s arms where it feels like the rest of the world has melted away. You want him to kiss you so badly, but he doesn't know he's allowed to and it's a travesty. Then, before you can catch it, your brain does something very stupid.

 

“Hey, Lance?” You say, waiting for his hum of acknowledgment. “I really like you.” The words seem to punch the breath out of Lance, and you feel him try to sit up, so you let go of his hands and roll onto your back to smile somewhat sheepishly up at him as he braces himself above you. He looks absolutely gobsmacked, but with the early morning light slipping in under the curtains and painting everything in gold, Lance looks like a king- no, a  _ God _ \- and you think that's a religion you could get behind. Finally, he smiles back at you, shyly, almost bashful.

 

“I really like you too,” he says quietly, before laughing incredulously, “sorry? Is this really happening? It kind of feels like I'm dreaming.” You grin up at him, and very carefully reach out a hand to pinch his thigh. He muffles a yelp, casting a glance at a sleeping Allura and Shay, before shaking his head at you in amusement. You put a hand on his arm, gently squeezing the strong muscle there, and he nods, settling back down behind you and pulling you back to his chest. You can feel his heart going a mile a minute, and you know yours is too, but you can't help but feel perfectly in place when Lance tucks his face against your neck and you can feel the euphoric grin splitting his face.

 

***

 

The worst part about Christmas is that it's always so cold. You've always loved the warmth, which is why you're bundled up in so many layers it's hard to move. Matt drives you, Shiro and Pidge to Lance’s apartment. Shiro seems to be doing better, especially if he's happy enough to go to Christmas brunch with the Holts. Matt says he'll come to pick Pidge up again later in the afternoon. You wave at the car until it's out of sight, before shouldering your bag and shepherding your friend into the apartment building.

 

“So this is where your hopeless crush lives?” She asks, surveying the area with a sharp glance. Carefully, she uses a finger to push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “Pretty nice for a couple of college students.” You know she's poking fun at the cramped studio-style apartment you and Shiro share, so you put one hand flat on top of her head and ruffle relentlessly until she's turning in a circle trying to swat your hand away. You laugh as she shoves you, and you stumble to the side a little.

 

“Lance's roommate Hunk works a pretty well-paying job at some fancy restaurant. And Lance has been working at the video game store in the mall since high school,” you explain, and she nods, seeming to accept this explanation. You knock on the door, which is promptly opened by Allura. The smell of Hunk’s cooking hits you first, followed by the sound of Lance’s high-pitched laughter. The shy chuckling that accompanies it belongs to Shay, for sure. You smile and put a hand on Pidge’s shoulder.

 

“Merry Christmas, Keith!” Allura says, putting an arm around your shoulders for a quick hug. You pat her on the back.

 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Allura. This is my friend Pidge.” You glance down at your friend to make sure she's okay. She seems fine, raising a hand and waving cheerfully at the taller girl. Allura beans and steps aside to let you in. You put your bag on the floor and stoop to unlace your boots. Pidge kicks off her too-big sneakers and follows Allura deeper into the apartment, making amicable small talk. You see a pair of festive sock-covered feet and look up to smile at Lance.

 

“Fancy running into you here,” he says, before pointing at your bag, “those your gifts?” You nod, and he picks up the bag, waiting for you to stand up. You haven't seen each other since Allura’s pre-Christmas party, and you're not really sure what to say or do. You open your mouth at the exact same moment that Lance leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. You both flush red, before he grabs your hand and tows you into the living room. He puts your bag of gifts underneath the Christmas tree, before tugging you over to a couch. You flop on it together, and he puts an arm around your shoulder after a brief moment of hesitation. You go even redder, ducking your face into the collar of your jacket and snuggling against Lance’s side.

 

“Lance, Hunk, Shay,” Allura’s voice cuts through your gay thoughts and makes you pay attention as she places a delicate hand on Pidge’s shoulder, “this is Keith’s friend, Pidge. Pidge, this is my girlfriend Shay, Lance and Hunk.” Pidge fixes you with a grin and you know the next thing to come out of her mouth is going to make you want to crawl into a hole and die there. She turns her gaze on Lance, folding her arms across her chest and nodding appetisingly.

 

“So you're the world famous Lance?” She asks and you groan, sinking into your jacket. Lance and Pidge burst into laughter at the same time, and you think if Lance wasn't so cute and you didn't love Pidge so much you might throttle them both. Instead, you give a long suffering sigh and lightly pinch Lance’s thigh. He puts a hand on top of your head and smooths your hair down, obviously not too bothered by Pidge revealing that all you do is talk about him. You think, actually, that that would stroke his ego, but he doesn't seem to want to tease you for it.

 

“And  _ you're  _ the famous Pidge. You like tech, right?” Pidge nods. “Cool! Hunk- my best friend- is majoring in engineering.” He points at Hunk where he's visible from the archway leading to the kitchen. Pidge waves, and Hunk waves back. She shoots you a look, and you nod. Immediately, she scurries toward the kitchen, sidling up beside Hunk to take part in a conversation that you can't hear. You can feel Lance grinning without even looking at him, but when you do, you giggle-snort because he looks  _ ridiculous  _ with his eyebrow raised that far up and his lips pushed out in a smug, almost mock-conspiratorial smirk.

 

“So… you talk about me a lot, huh?”

 

“Don't sound so proud of yourself. Hunk told me  _ you  _ talk about  _ me  _ a lot too!” You shoot back, and Lance looks surprised before laughing again, hand around your shoulder tightening as he pulls you in for a cuddle. You wrap your arms around him and press your face against the side of his neck as he pets your hair with his other hand. It's such a comforting motion, and you think Lance must definitely be an older sibling because only big brothers have that capacity to comfort (you miss Shiro, but you know he'll come around eventually).

 

“I can't believe he sold me out,” he sighs dramatically, before pulling back to smile at you with sincerity, “but I'm glad he did. I don't think I could have survived another month of pining.” That gets a laugh out of you.

 

“You're preaching to the choir.”

 

“How come you confessed first?”

 

“Hunk told me you talk about me all the time. And also that you had a crush on me.” Lance looks mortally offended for all of a second, before he shrugs overdramatically and settles back into the couch, allowing you the room to curl against his chest again. His fingers stroke up and down your back absently, and he leans his cheek against the top of your head with a gentle hum.

 

“Hunk could reveal every single one of my secrets and I wouldn't care,” he says, smiling fondly at you, “because if I have him to thank for getting my dream guy to confess he likes me? I owe that man every serving of Mamá’s coveted bistec de palomilla in the world.” You stare at Lance for a second or two, trying to comprehend the “dream guy” part before a grin stretches your face, and you snuggle into his chest a little more, trying to hide your horrendously red face.

 

Hanging out with them is always good. It’s always easy, always so simple. You never have to pretend here. Never have to bottle things up. It feels like you fit here, like you always have, and you always will. Hunk’s brunch turns out to be a banquet for royalty, and trying to cram the six of you around their tiny dining table meant for a max of four is a challenge, but you manage. You make ridiculous toasts to each other (and in Lance’s cause, ‘our queen and our saviour, Beyoncé’), to friendship and to happiness with your sparkling fruit juices. You eat until you can’t eat anymore, as does everyone else. You don’t miss Pidge’s meaningful glances across the table. She knows. She  _ knows  _ these people make you happier than you’ve ever been in your life, and when you finally catch her eyes, she looks a specific brand of wearily tired, as if her job as patron of your happiness is over. You subtly stand on her toes under the table, making her laugh. Sparkling apple juice nearly squirts out of her nose, and Lance says ‘nice’. 

 

You exchange presents. Some are a little funny (Hunk’s gift to Lance is a neon pink bell that reads ‘Ring for Sex’ which he immediately mashes so hard that Hunk has to take it off him again) and some are sweet, like Allura’s matching charm bracelet set for Shay and herself. Lance is enamoured with the shirt you got him, holding it up against his chest and demanding that everyone look, immediately. You thought an aqua blue shirt with a shark that reads “BITE ME” was perfect for him, and it seems you were right. In turn, you’re equally excited when you unwrap his present and find a small, plush, hippo and a box of the expensive but somewhat obscure Belgian chocolates you like. Your eyes widen and you gape at Lance, gratitude in your features as Pidge snatches the plush toy from your grip to inspect it.

 

“I can’t believe you remembered,” you say, still awestruck. Lance grins, sheepishly, but his chest puffs out proudly. Obviously, he’s pleased with your praise, and you’re pleased that he’s pleased. Happiness is a good look on him.

 

“Hey,” he says, “I might have an ADHD hell brain, but when it comes to things that are important to me?” He taps his temple. “Might as well be a steel trap up here.” You share a meaningful smile, before Pidge lightly presses the snout of the plush toy to the back of your hand. You startle, take the toy back from her and cradle it in your arms. She gives you a knowing smirk and you step on her toes again, a silent warning not to make fun of you (please). She takes mercy on you this time and turns back to Hunk to ask about his engineering program again and if he happens to know what their computer science department is like.

 

You and Lance help Hunk with the dishes after brunch, while Pidge, Allura and Shay set up a Christmas movie watching party in the living room. Hunk insists the pair of you let him clean the rest of the kitchen, and shoos you both away from the sink. You and Lance make it as far as the archway before, from the lounge, Pidge clears her throat. Allura hides a laugh behind a dainty hand, and Shay shakes her head in amusement, hoop earrings jangling. You wonder what the looks are for, before Lance touches your hand and you look at him. He’s looking up, so you look up too.

 

Oh. Mistletoe.

 

You flush red to the roots of your hair, especially as Lance turns to look at you with a shy smile. He shrugs, helplessly, and you shake your head at him, amused. It’s really the perfect opportunity. You’re sure Pidge planned this, little mastermind genius that she is, and you make sure to thank her later. You can see Lance’s brain still going for a way to ask you to kiss him, so you just step in closer, bunch your hands in his ugly Christmas sweater and lean up. He relaxes, puts his hands either side of your face and leans into you.

 

His lips are soft, and warm, and he kisses you gently, slowly, if not a little clumsily from nerves. Okay, maybe you’re the clumsy one, and the nervous one. Lance cradles your face delicately, as if he’s trying to pour every admission of affection from his lips directly onto yours, and you couldn’t be happier. You wrap your arms around him and lean on him. Your weight is a little too much, and he stumbles, bracing himself against the kitchen archway with a little laugh against your lips. It’s infectious, and you laugh too, pulling away to cover your face. Your friends simultaneously break into sarcastic golf claps for you. Pidge whistles. Lance reaches around the arch for his shirt, placed on a side table for safe keeping. He unfolds it and holds it up like banner to the living room first, and then Hunk in the kitchen.

 

You lead Lance to the couch, worming your way in next to Pidge. Shay, Allura and Hunk lean against your legs, camped out on spare mattresses and swaddled in blankets. Lance pulls a hand-stitched quilt across your lap, and Pidge wiggles closer to usurp some of your combined warmth. It’s only when you’re well into the first movie, and Lance is distracted, whispering something to Hunk, that you lean across to have a quiet conversation with Pidge.

 

“Did you help stage that?” She gives you a knowing smile.

 

“Historically,” she says, lightly pinching your cheek and wiggling it like an old woman remarking on how much you’ve grown, “you’ve always needed a push.” You wrangle your head away and catch her hand. You hold it for a second, slotting your hands together properly, and encasing hers in both of yours. You squeeze, lightly, and fix her with your best sincere smile.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome, Keith. You know you’re like a brother to me.” She squeezes your hand back, and then slips hers lose. There’s a pause, before her little, impish smile gives way to a more sincere one. “It means a lot to me to see you happy. I’ll always be invested in your happiness. That,” the impish grin is back, “and I couldn’t stand to watch another one of those awkward cheek-kiss greetings. Seriously, Keith, what the fuck.” You laugh, because really, thinking back on the memory, you’ve no choice but to agree.

  
  


***

 

“Keith.  _ Keith. Keeeeeeeeeith, _ ” Pidge gives a long suffering sigh and clacks the coathangers together, “please stop doing a prime Facehugger impersonation for long enough to give me an Honest Opinion, tee em.” Lance snorts as you reluctantly pull away from him, fingers curled into the nape of his hair. You glance between the two shirts Pidge is holding and, after a moment of consideration, you point to the tropical patterned button up.

 

“It looks gayer,” you justify and Pidge flicks you with the hem of the shirts as she whirls around and strides deeper into the store. You chuckle a little and lean into Lance’s chest a little, letting out a little sigh as his long fingers thread into your hair and massage your scalp. He presses a little kiss to the top of your head. It’s hard to believe it’s been almost four months since that Christmas party. It’s hard to believe you’ve been calling Lance your boyfriend for almost four months. And yet, it has been almost four months, and here you are, taking advantage of the Easter commercial sales to do some spring shopping.

 

The three of you exit the store, Pidge swinging her bags in her hands. You and Lance hold hands, walking close enough that your shoulders knock with each stride. You listen to the other two have some heated discussion over some obscure video game you don’t recognize. You don’t mind being out of the conversation. You’re glad they get along and you just like to hear Lance talk. You come to a halt next to the designated meeting place, digging your phone from your back pocket to check the time. Lance’s face smiles back at you, half obscured by the pillow of your bed, and scrunched up in laughter. It’s your favourite picture of him.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” Shiro’s voice cuts Lance and Pidge’s conversation short as he wanders up beside you. He shifts his shopping bags from one arm to the other. You give him a concerned look, and he gives you the tired, almost fatherly one you’re so used to. He puts the free hand on your shoulder. A silent reassurance;  _ I’m fine. My prosthetic isn’t giving me any trouble. _ You relax.

 

“We just got here,” you say by way of a dismissal of his apology.

 

“Yeah,” Lance adds, “Pidge was taking  _ forever  _ to decide on clothes to impress  _ Holly _ ,” he sing-songs the name, and then gracefully side-steps behind you as Pidge attempts to take him out at the knees with her shopping bags. You scuttle backwards out of the firing range as well, shaking your head in amusement. Shiro looks vaguely baffled, glancing at you for clarification.

 

“Holly is the girl from Pidge’s robotics class,” you explain.

 

“Oh,” says Shiro, thinking about this, “the one you have a hopeless crush on?” Pidge glowers at him, and then at Lance and then at you.

 

“This is homophobia,” she says, deadpan, and the lot of you burst into laughter. When she finally stops laughing she points accusingly at you and Lance. “The  _ real  _ reason we were late is because these two were too busy being attached at the lips.” You can almost feel Lance’s broad grin before you see it. He whisks forward, wraps an arm around Pidge and squeezes her tightly. She looks like a disgruntled cat, and you and Shiro share a twin snort of laughter.

 

“Oh  _ Pidge, _ darling, I’m so sorry, did  _ you  _ want a kiss?” He asks, leaning down with his lips dramatically puckered. Pidge puts one bag-filled hand on his face and wiggles loose, leaving Lance clutching his chest with an exaggerated look of faux-pain on his face. You can’t help but burst into laughter, covering your face with your free hand and shaking your head. It’s one of the many things you love about Lance; he’s funny. Even Pidge is smiling.

  
“Hm, no, declined,” she decides, making an X with her arms. Lance waves her away, sidling back to you and leaning on you heavily. You turn your face to kiss his cheek, slipping your hand into his again. He squeezes it gently, with a pleased smile on his face. Pidge turns to face Shiro. “Can we go to the game store now?” She asks. Shiro looks to you and Lance. You both nod. He looks back to Pidge.

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

Pidge turns and starts off on the path towards the game store, Shiro falling into step beside her. You turn to look at Lance, who is watching you with a fond smile. You smile back at him, leaning in to meet him in a soft kiss. You’ll never get used to the fact that you’re allowed to do that, but you’re sure as hell not complaining. You take off into a brisk walk to catch up with the other two, and you think;  _ This is it. _ As you look around you; at Shiro and Pidge laughing up ahead, like Shiro had laughed before he’d gone away, at Lance, body bathed in sunlight filtering through the glass-domed roof of the mall complex, you think- no, you  _ know- _ this is the moment of complete euphoria you want to live in forever.


End file.
